Targeted
by welshcanadian14
Summary: Six days and nineteen hours left... The game is afoot for Holmes and Watson and the stakes are high. One mistake and death will come knocking at the door of the girl who mattered.
1. Chapter 1: The Client

**Summary** : _Six days and nineteen hours left... The game is afoot for Holmes and Watson and the stakes are high. One mistake and death will target the girl that mattered._

 _A/N: I know that I have been such a bad person putting this story on fanfiction and deleting it twice. I just had to make a few changes to the story's content and now I am more focused on it. So don't worry. I won't be deleting it again. I will be blunt and say that the updates will be very sporadic. Even I don't know when each chapter will be posted. But, I hope, you guys shall stick by the story nevertheless. So the story takes place after Sherlock comes back from the dead. Let it begin...once again._

 _Ps: I do not own any of the characters belonging to the BBC. As well as the cover photo._

* * *

 **~TARGETED~**

 **~Chapter 1: The Client~**

A whirring fan stood erect in a somber corner, humming quietly as a dispute between two fellows bellowed over its continuous sound. A modicum of rays shone through the bent blinds of the only window in the quaint space as they revealed a mass of floating dust particles that had hidden in the darkness afore. The atmosphere gave out a sense of hostility, specifically targeted upon one of the men (the stout bloke donning a tremulous countenance).

"Where's merchandise you promised me?" The man who seemed in control grunted. A heavy accent could be perceived from the pronunciation and fluency of his words; presumably somewhere from Western Asia. The tall, bulky man stood behind a wooden desk, his fists moulded into its surface. His left forearm bore an immense tattoo of a grey wolf. The creature exuded an air of menace and superiority upon those who looked into its eyes. Also, on the nape of the man's neck lay an imprint of the Greek Alpha letter, its symbolism easy to deduce.

"Chill mate, I'll get it soon. Some…things just got in the way of the delivery, that's all." The shorter leaner man shrugged, trying to act certain and apathetic but his nervousness still managed to slip through the metaphorical cracks of his psyche. As the scene unfolded, he certainly knew that―in the room―he was the weakest link. So he tried to be as unobtrusive as possible whilst talking to the angry criminal-oriented immigrant. "A few weeks and―" A throwing knife hit the badly plastered wall behind the stout Londoner. He immediately ceased talking and stood frozen as the sharp instrument nicked the periphery of his right ear. He noticed crimson blood starting to slowly drip onto his shirt and the already stained floor.

"Hayir!" The foreigner declined with a sharp no in his native tongue. "I need merchandise now! I give money, now you give me what I want…or something happens…to you." He slid out a highly serrated combat knife off from his belt that had been hiding underneath his white shirt and began playing with it languorously as a sign of aggression and perhaps murderous intent.

"N-now, now me," the poor man searched for the right word, "old mate… I'll get tha' stuff; I just need m-more time. Im-impressive knife, but why don't we put it away, yeah? This is only a business transaction… not a showdown." He faintly stuttered as he tried to charm himself out of the hole (or trench) he had dug himself into.

The sound of the knife's tip embedding itself into the bureau made the Englishman jump out of his skin. His business partner chuckled menacingly. "Funny, you jump like sheep." His smirk faded. "You have seven days." He placed the knife back into its original place.

"…Hurrah, a week… it'll be enough." The man maintained his nonchalant façade, but deep down his heartbeat quickened and panic flowed through his veins. How could he get something that did not exist? He had finally learned that people could never be trusted, what was new?

"Problem?" The tattooed man asked.

"Nah," he responded a little too quickly, "no problem… I just… why don't I give ya' something different? … Much better quality and worthwhile. I'm just sayi―"

"I want what I paid for. No exchanges, no paybacks and no cops. There is not second choice. Seven days…" He walked around and stood to face the Londoner, grabbing his chin. "Or I start coming after your family…then you. We'll keep in touch." He shoved the smaller gent forcefully towards the exit, making him scurry away like a cowardly mouse.

Stewart ran his fingers through his short blond hair, letting out a shaky breath in the cold evening night. Seven days…he had even less than seven minuscule days to fix his fatal problem or the consequences would not just be centred on him. His family would be put at risk because of his criminal activity and drug addiction. There was one action he intended to accomplish; to make his way to the only consulting detective in the world.

* * *

 _Monday- 5:00 AM- 6 Days, 19 hours left..._

Droplets of rain tattooed upon a foggy window pane as grey clouds covered the bleak skies. The tiresome noise of an unbearable brass instrument bounced off the walls of complex 221B in the wee hours of the morning, before the bleached sun could crack a smile upon the city of London.

A scruffy man who was strewn on a couch asleep jolted out of the realm of his serene reveries, letting out an indignant groan whilst annoyance clung tightly to his aura. As the irksome noise vibrated in his eardrums continuously, he slowly sat up, kicking the blanket which had lain over him onto the floor. "What the―!?" His voice dragged out when his eyes lingered on the lanky man on the other side of the room, sitting legs crossed in his usual chair, the incriminating evidence held to his lips.

"Ah, John… you have finally awoken." Sherlock blatantly said, placing the bugle upon his lap and uncrossing his legs.

"Conveniently awoken you mean," John mumbled crossly. "What is so important you needed to bloody wake me up at," he checked his watch, "five in the morning! And more importantly, with that thing! You don't just wake people up like that, we've discussed this already. And really, a bugle?" He pointed at the instrument, his temper dissipating since there was just no point in continuing.

"I am allowed to do whatever I please in my residence. For example, learning the art of playing the bugle. It is not my fault you have decided to move in with your girlfriend. Though I do not know why you find living with her more stimulating than with me." He replied conceitedly, oblivious to this sort of matter, just like a child.

"Mary's my fiancée, there is a difference." John corrected, crossing his arms.

"Girlfriend, fiancée, wife, mistress…all the same to me; boring. Yet you still choose that chemical defect over solving gruesome murders that have been inflicted by wondrous serial killers." Sherlock kept an impassive appearance but his baritone voice held confusion.

"Look, I know you are a man who cannot tolerate change that negatively impacts you, but you didn't think I would be living with you forever, did you? I'm getting married Sherlock, with the woman whom I love, not a chemical defect. I'm still working with you so get over it." The army doctor rolled his eyes, sitting down in his chair. "How's the case we started last night going?" He changed the subject.

"Easy, closed it a few seconds after you nodded off. You really should try and stay awake John, or at least go home. Mary's probably worried… she does tend to keep you on a short leash." The detective smirked, still not happy about John's choice of abandonment. He was positive it would start hindering his deducing skills soon enough and he was appalled by it. Who would he ramble on to in the middle of the night? His skull was starting to aggravate him.

"I'm not―she doesn't―Shut up!" John fumbled with his words, snapping at his partner. He scrunched up his nose; it was too early in the morning for this. "Enough of that, what was so important to wake me up at this insane hour?" John asked, tilting his head enquiringly.

"What was it?… Ah yes… open the door, would you?" He said demandingly, clearly focused on something else since he had taken out his phone and was scrolling for any impending messages. Specifically, from Lestrade.

"Why?" He quirked his eyebrow, questioning his friend's order with good reason, almost not wanting or even expecting an answer.

"Well, Watson...doors are usually opened when there is someone waiting behind it. Do I have to explain every measly thing to you?" He snorted, placing the mobile into his pocket.

"Yes, I know what a door does… Sherlock." John ended his sentence with a stern tone. "But is there actually a person on the other end? Surely, Mrs. Hudson would have opened the front door for a client, even at this very early hour."

"Obviously. But she didn't unlock this one." The sociopath's eyes trailed toward the closed entrance of their… his apartment complex, giving out an exasperated eye roll.

The army doctor furrowed his brow. He hadn't awoken by the sound of a doorbell or their landlady's disapproving cries. He was typically a light sleeper; a trait he procured from the war. John then asked his partner, "couldn't you get off your arse and welcome the client in?" He felt like he was teaching an old dog new tricks.

"I was busy comparing the habits of an albino Rattus Norvegicus and a common one. My findings were quite astounding. Anyhow, that is what I have you for." The detective shrugged, a slight smirk etched across his face.

"That is not all I do. Wait, you were practising the bugle, when were you fiddling with rats?" John asked, skeptical.

"Studying them, I do not fiddle. My experiment dissipated a few hours ago." Sherlock replied, not seeing a problem.

"What I'm understanding out of all… this," he made a large gesture with both of his hands, somewhat waving them around witlessly, "is that you are making some chap or lady wait a few hours to talk to you all because you were play-"

"Studying." Sherlock interrupted, huffing from his friend's careless attitude towards his scientific investigations. "I never play."

John cleared his throat, choosing not to listen. "Play-ing with pests." His voice turned gruff as he tried to lower his voice.

"Calm yourself, Watson. The probability that our visitor has decided to remain is increasingly low, but we must never jump to conclusions."

The doctor sighed, curiosity getting the better of him. He stomped towards the entrance and unlocked the latch, opening it wide, seeing no one. "You are lucky that no one was-"He was halted in mid-sentence when his eyes fell upon a short, skinny young man asleep on the cold floor. A slight snore rattled his vocal cords and drool dripped aimlessly to his cheek. He looked quite pitiful and in somewhat an awkward sleeping position.

John nudged the bloke with his foot, awakening the man from his slumber. "Oi mate! Gentle with ye' foot!" He whined, scrambling to arise.

"Sorry. Also, pardon my friend who inconveniently left you out here for so long." Watson held out his hand and the younger man accepted the aid and apology.

"I just really need th'a Detective's help, mate. Mr. Watson ain't it? Heard about ya' from me―." His heavy cockney accent was interrupted by Holmes.

"Let him in Watson. Let me deduce if he's got a case that won't bore me." The detective's words echoed into the hallway. He made a swift gesture with his hand, showing their visitor to enter.

"Appreciate that, mate." The man said, walking up to Sherlock and sitting down. "The name's Stewart-" He was cut off blatantly by the detective. His impoliteness as acute as ever.

"Do not refer to me as mate, simply Mr. Holmes. It is bothersome." Sherlock scoffed, scanning the young man, peering at his mannerisms and facial expressions. Milking all the information he could gain from his guest only from an eye-view. It seemed, to Mister Holmes, that this man was common―very common. Whatever he needed was most assuredly not important enough for his extraordinary talents but he was desperate for something to do. So he decided to listen to what this Stewart desired.

"Aye…In a bit of a rut, you see, and I thought ye would be able to help a fellow chap out." Stewart rubbed his palms, trying to get rid of the droplets of perspiration which slowly made them clammy and sticky. It was clear to deduce that the man was in more than just a rut. Rather a deep trench.

Sherlock simply arose, smoothed down his pantaloons, and simply stated. "That will be all. I will not be taking the case. If you irrevocably need aid in this problem the closest thing to my astute skills, and I indeed say closest, would be Scotland Yard. Gooday." The detective walked past Watson and opened the door, enticing the man to leave.

Bowing his head in disappointment, John flicked his partner's hand from the knob and closed it, pushing Sherlock into the kitchen. "Excuse us."

"What's the bloody problem now? Hmm? At least let the poor boy explain his problem. He looks as white as chalk." John half whispered, peering over to a pale-faced Stewart who was now picking at his cuticles with intense consternation.

"There is no need for him to explain. I already know his quandary and have good reason to decline." Sherlock reiterated with a glisten of apathy in his eyes.

"Which is?"

"Drugs. He is almost certainly in deep trouble with a German… no… Turkish drug cartel and knowing my past… difficulties involving sustenance abuse, it is a clear sign to stay away. Unless you wouldn't mind me doing just this one case." Holmes added wittily.

"Are you out of your mind? As a student of medicine and as a friend I- "

"Relax John, I was merely being jocular. I am not an idiot." The sociopath interrupted, a deep chuckle rumbling in his oesophagus.

"Before our guest is kindly asked to leave, are you sure he's involved with drugs? You might have deduced incorrectly. It is you who has proclaimed that there is always something you miss while deducing." Watson replied.

"There is a better chance for a pig to fly. It is fairly apparent. His face is flushed and he keeps licking his lips resulting from a dry throat. He needed your assistance to lift him off the ground which shows that his muscles have weakened. All these effects come from drug use, more precisely, heroin. If that is not enough, there are injection marks on both his arms. Knowing that he is a user, he must get his stash from somewhere. There are many drug gangs to choose from, but heroin narrows it down. I deduced a Turkish gang since I could smell Buzbağ, a type of Turkish red wine, mixed with their country's tobacco on his clothes, which means he was with them not too long ago. Seeing that he did not change his outfit indicates that he came straight to our apartment. And since no one in their right mind would come visit 221B Baker Street in the middle of the night shows that he has put himself in the line of fire with the drug cartel. He probably owes them money for his foolish addiction. There is nothing we can do for him anyway. He dug his own hole and must get out himself." Sherlock finished, turning back to the chap after his long observational speech.

Before anything else was said, the doorbell sounded. Footsteps were heard ascending the stairs followed by three taps on the door to the apartment. Right after, in walked Molly Hooper: pathologist for St Bartholomew's Hospital. To be precise, she worked in the morgue. It was not typically a jovial job, per se.

"Hey Sher… oh… you have a client. Sorry… I just brought you the extra rat you needed for your experiment." Molly popped her head around the dark brown door. "I'll come back la―" The door started to creak shut but suddenly burst open once more, revealing a shocked and fuming Molly…directed straight at the young lad Stewart. She took long strides to the man and slapped him hard across his right cheek, making it swollen and red. She cried, emitting pure rage. "What the hell are you doing here?!"


	2. Chapter 2: The Problem

_A/N: I thank you for suppporting my story, fellow readers. I have decided to try and update one chapter a week, on Friday. The journey has only begun..._

 _ps: thank you TheSandFromTheEmbers, Icecat62, and Andristasia Grey-Darcy for the lovely reviews._

* * *

 **TARGETED~**

 **~Chapter 2: The Problem~**

 _Monday- 6:30- AM- 6 Days, 18 hours left..._

"Why d'ya do that?" Stewart shouted, holding his cheek with one hand, oblivious and groggy from lack of sleep.

"I haven't seen you in two years! What? You thought I wouldn't care if you only picked up the phone two out of twenty times I called you? Where were you? I was worried sick!" She rambled on like an overprotective mother and punched him in the shoulder, still fuming.

Molly was ready for a comeback, but Stewart simply went to hug her. In a way, he was deeply apologizing for what he had done… but she didn't know that yet.

"I didn't know Molly had a brother," John whispered to Sherlock as they both watched the scene unfold from the background.

"That is because she does not have one." Sherlock simply stated.

"So she told you?" John asked.

"Told me what?" Sherlock answered, perplexed.

"That she was an only child." The doctor specified.

"She told me nothing of the kind." The detective said, a bit frustrated.

"So how do you know she doesn't have a brother? It is rather plausible, is it not?" John suspected, frowning, trying to get his opinion across.

"Molly would have told me. She tells me everything. Anyhow, that man is an idiotic goldfish. It is impossible for them to be genetically related. He is probably an…acquaintance…of some kind." He added, proving his point.

"Oh yeah, acquaintance, right." Watson stifled a laugh.

Their small conversation ceased when Molly and Stewart's discussion started to heat up and burst into flames. Everything went downhill when the hug had been disconnected. "Do not think for one moment that I have forgiven you. You still have yet to tell me why you have been too busy to see me."

Stewart shifted his gaze towards the floor, exuding a culpable aura. Molly caught on quickly like she had read his mind. She gasped. "You didn't… you did! Drugs…really! Last time you used was when dad…" Her sentence trailed off purposely as strain entered her voice. It was unquestionably too painful. Her eyes turned into saucers when a plausible remark clicked in her mind. "Wait, if you are here as a client it must mean that you are in trouble. Brother… what have you gotten yourself into?" Molly asked, worried.

As Sherlock watched the discussion, he noticed how different Molly was acting. She seemed gentle, but also firm. A motherly instinct which appeared alien to him. No profuse anxiety seeped through her actions or words. It was a new side of her that he had never stumbled upon before and it gave him a sense of wanting. An itch to know more about Molly for it seemed that every second that went by, his conventional way of perceiving her started to blur and the lines between what he thought he knew and what he didn't, became harder to recognize. All in all, it started to infuriate him. He always wanted to understand everything and his pathologist was an enigma which appeared unsolvable. Hence, an unsolved puzzle made Sherlock agitated, very agitated indeed. He started to tap on the upper part of his thigh with his right hand, trying to soothe his 'overwhelming incomprehension' overload.

Before any chairs were thrown, John cut in, evidently becoming the mediator. "Let us all have a seat and discuss whatever mess we are apparently about to get into." He gestured to the couch with a strong yet serene voice. He sounded like a tender-hearted general in the middle of a war that was experiencing a period of temporary cease-fire―which was far from a real definition of war. Horrid and doleful came closer to its true form.

After a few minutes and a handful of Jaffa cakes from the landlord, Mrs. Hudson, Stewart started explaining his quandary; all from the beginning.

* * *

 _One Week Prior_

 _"Did you hear about the new drug that is about to hit the streets?" Stewart's alcoholic roommate asked, slurring his words next to a rum bottle that lay on its side, only the few droplets that remained dripped out onto the floor like a leaky faucet. "They want to sell each of them for a… large sum of mon-ey even if they are dirt-cheap to make." Marty extended his arms like a child, giggling. Then, he got serious. "But, Shhhh! It was supposed to be a secret." He whined._

 _"Yeah? How do ya' know then?" Stewart asked, completely sober and had just gotten home._

 _"I wo-rk for the company, of co-urse." He slurred once again._

 _"Which company?" Hooper asked, clearly interested._

 _"Cariad and Webber. WAIT! Shhh! No telling!" Marty limply closed his heavy eyes and fell to the floor like a rag doll, out cold._

 _Stewart sat down, intertwining his fingers together in thought. He could finally get his big break. If he got some of the drugs before it landed on the streets, he would be able to sell it to any drug gang in the city. All he needed to do is some blackmailing with the company's CEO. Cariad &Webber was a renowned pharmaceutical corporation which was supposed to be searching for remedies to cure diseases, not creating illegal drugs. It would be a piece of cake. They would have no choice but to listen to him. So, he left his apartment, heading to see the famous CEO; Walter Webber. _

_After ninety minutes, he was sitting comfortably in front of Walter Webber's desk donning a smug countenance, finishing their conversation. "So ya' see Mista' Webber, let me be your distributor and I'll be on me way." Stewart proposed, leaning forward in his chair._

 _Walter remained silent, in thought. He did not seem at all disturbed about being extorted. He simply smirked and replied. "Fine. You can be our distributor…for our drug you say? However, I will need the money beforehand. There are rules higher up than me. Just go make a deal with whoever you want and when you get the money, call this number." He jotted down a phone number on a small piece of scrap paper and handed it to the young man. "Then, put it in a brown bag and discard it in the mailbox of house 34 on Chancery Lane. Finally, go to the house six doors down and open that mailbox, you will find another brown bag with everything you have paid for inside." He explained. "Now leave, you have been here long enough." The suited man finished, sitting up and opening the door. And then, Stewart left._

 _After a few days, Stewart Hooper had acquired five hundred grand from the Turkish gang. It took a lot of persuading, but they soon accepted. It was evident that no one in their right mind would try to double-cross them alone unless they had a death wish. Also, the cartel was in need of new merchandise since they were losing business from the Chinese who were beginning to grow rather expeditiously._

 _Finally, it was time for the phone call. He only heard one word on the other end when whoever it was finally picked up. "Understood." The line then went dead, leaving an irritating dial tone._

 _He took a cab to the street indicated for the drop-off and placed the brown bag filled with money in the box, heading to the next destination mapped out in his mind. With a foolhardy smile, he opened the mailbox, ready for his big break, but the ecstasy soon faded and his heart crumbled. There were no brown bags and more importantly― no drugs._

 _He panicked and ran back to the first post-box. Nothing…the money was gone and now he was a goner. The whole time, he was the one getting double-crossed. Now, he needed to go tell a volatile drug cartel that he lost their money…all of it._

* * *

 _Present Time_

"And then I came here." He said after finishing his story about what the cartel told him. Drugs, not money; seven days or your family is dead. "The only target is you, Molly…no more family left but us." Stewart explained solemnly, bowing his head miserably.

"Of all the ludicrous things you've done…Stewart…that scam was apparent even a mile away. A big CEO of one of the richest pharmaceutical companies in the country would not just give away a part of his money and business to some kid!" Molly raised her voice. She was more afraid for her brother than for her own safety.

"I'm no kid, yeah? I'm twenty-five!" Stewart moaned. He did not want his sister to see him as a puny child anymore albeit she was seven years his senior.

"Well, your actions prove otherwise." Sherlock cut in, anger seeping into his tone. "You have made your sister a target because of your moronic careless actions. A goldfish would fend better than yourself." He added. Watson shot Holmes a typical glare.

"Mate's right…I'm rubbish," Stewart spoke up, sighing. "But that's why ye came here. Mo talks about how ya' help people and always win. Well…I need ya' help. For Mo's sake." He looked directly at Sherlock with a beseeching gaze.

Sherlock watched Mr. Hooper, narrowing his eyes. He possessed fair blond hair which stuck out from every direction and a pale complexion. Also, as said before, he was short but thin, making him appear younger than he really was. He had thin lips like Molly, but his nose was much flatter and his eyes were a grey blue. Stubble was starting to poke through a modicum of pores on his chin. They didn't look or act the same at all, yet they were related. Nature sure enjoyed playing tricks. A buzz of anger stayed strong towards his guest and it perplexed him. He usually didn't care, but something about this case did. His pathologist was in danger of being shot down like a prized duck. Without her, his experiments would be squandered rather hastily. She was a trusted friend, like John. After what she had done for him during the Reichenbach Fall, he had not much choice regarding her as a comrade. He had made a choice; he would solve this challenging case without fault. How hard can it be? All he and Watson needed to accomplish was to get the real drugs from Cariad&Webber. Blackmail would be seemingly easy. If Stewart almost did it, then he could perfect it. He used the same technique over and over again whilst breaking apart Moriarty's grand hierarchical structure of his felonious business.

"I have no choice but to agree since there is no one else who would or can aid you in this fragile matter." Sherlock responded, trying to seem as professional as possible. He needed to act as if it were any ordinary case. Molly would need to be seen as any other victim in need of protection.

John remained silent the whole time, keeping his thoughts to himself. He knew they were getting themselves into something dangerous―especially for Sherlock who had numerous problems involving drug abuse. However, none of that seemed to matter to anyone in the room at that time since lives were at risk; Molly's life to be exact and probably the rest of them after they would start to meddle. Because of this, John did not fuss or complain, knowing that they were the only ones who could help… but he still let himself worry and little did he know that his long list of worries had only begun.

"Sherlock, John…what do I do? I am not prepared to just throw my life away and go into hiding. I cannot have a target on my back and simply live in fear forever, awaiting a murderous death that could pounce on me at any minute by a Turkish mobster. Toby will surely―" She halted mid-sentence, giving up. The past few years toughened her mind and character so she did not cry, but she did rub her eyes profusely as she breathed ragged breaths. She was beginning to comprehend the seriousness of her brother's mistake. Before, she was too much in a state of shock to process all the information that was being thrown her way.

"Just go to work and live your life, Miss Hooper. There is still a little under a week before you are in actual danger. These mobsters really want the drugs they were promised or they would not have offered a deal in the first place. They will keep their agreement. We also do not want them to think that you know something. They may think you contacted the police." John answered ahead of his partner, finally getting a word in edgewise. He was not the only one who knew what he was talking about.

"Indeed, go to work. Anyhow, if we succeed to get the drugs from Mr. Webber, then this matter will be solved today. I will text you if anything happens. If so, then come straight back here. Also, bring him to your residence. He will only be a needless distraction and he is quite…irritable." Sherlock confessed, ignoring Stewart's blasphemous remarks. His eyes softened as he stared at Molly's fragile composure, almost touching her hands to comfort her, but he retracted.

"Okay. Stewart, you know where I live so take a taxi and go there straight away. I have to go to work." She then spoke to the two partners. "And p-please, do call if… anything happens." She took a deep shaky breath and left, leaving the three men alone.

Sherlock arose, throwing on his usual Belstaff coat, waiting for John to follow. Which he did. "Where are we going then?" The army doctor asked.

"Such a simple yet good question, Watson. We are heading to Cariad&Webber. Let us see if we can extract the truth from Mr. Webber himself." With a flip of his coat, the door was shut… leaving poor Stewart alone and forgotten. Until, the door opened once again. "Ah, see yourself out." Sherlock added nonchalantly, closing the apartment's entrance with a rushed bang.

After a few seconds of silence, Stewart got up from the couch and meandered down the stairs where Mrs. Hudson stood. He looked like a lost puppy whose eyes were empty. Like his brain had ceased processing any new information because it fell quiescent.

Seeing the old woman, a little spark was set aflame and he murmured quietly. "Why is she so…calm? Even if Mo's in danger…she ain't freaking out. Why?"

"So, you are Miss Hooper's brother." She smiled, grabbing his arm and leading him to the kitchen table, sitting him down. "Goodness me, you look awfully tousled, my dear. Why don't I make you a cup of tea and we can have a good old chat?" Mrs. Hudson fetched two teacups from a cupboard and brewed some fresh tea leaves. Setting the tea set upon the wooden surface of the table, she herself sat down opposite a nonplussed Stewart, complaining about her hip.

"Thanks." He muttered, accepting the tea that had been offered to him.

"You want to know why Molly isn't terribly frightened?" She did not let the man answer. "Why she has complete faith in Sherlock Holmes, of course. All his friends do. That's how you can distinguish between the two."

"What two?"

"Between the real and the fake friends, young man. In life, if you look at true friendship as those who have your trust, then you realize that you possess fewer tangible friends. However, then those remaining are perceived as more precious than before." She explained. "Sherlock does not have many friends, bless him, but he understands that the ones he does have, trust him and vice versa." She concluded with a gleam of wisdom in her eyes.

"But she's trusting him with her life…that's a lot of faith in one chap." Stewart spoke up, still slightly bewildered.

"If you ever get to know him, you would understand." She then whispered to herself. "And the way she looks at him…" Mrs. Hudson knew that there was something that gave a person even more trust and it was love. Something which was positively bubbling inside the heart of Molly Hooper. She could not fathom if it was also happening to the second party. She dared not say.

"Sorry, did ya say somthin'?" The younger Hooper asked, perking up.

"Just the hip, nasty old thing, always aches when it's about to rain." Mrs. Hudson replied loquaciously.

"…um…I should get goin'. Me sister's orders." He took a final swig of the lukewarm tea and bid the perculiar woman farewell, walking down one of London's foggy streets. If Molly trusted Mister Holmes, then he would have to as well.

* * *

 _Monday-8:01 AM- 6 days, 16 hours and 29 minutes left..._

Holmes and Watson sat in a taxi, each looking out of their own windows, absorbed in the silence that came before all the drama; the calm before the storm.

John kept glancing at his friend, opening his mouth, but closing it soon after. He performed the same act a few times before he decided to say something. "Doing alright?" He asked a simple question, but it was certainly a tough one for Sherlock.

"Why wouldn't I be? There is a case, I am wholly preoccupied and my boredom has dissipated." He stated as he kept his vision out of the car's back window.

"This case is personal Sherlock. One of the people you regard as a close friend is in danger. You cannot tell me you do not care." John furrowed his brow. He understood his partner's low emotional quota and his disability to show many strong sentiments, but it was impossible for him to feel absolutely no fear or discomfort. So, he concluded that Sherlock Holmes was lying and was probably duping himself as well.

"I do… feel… somewhat anxious, but it is nothing I can't take care of." He replied, adjusting his scarf.

"You can't just take care of your emotions, mate. You can try to put a plaster over a wound, but it doesn't mean it still won't hurt. Is the anxiety because the case's main theme is drugs or because Molly is on a Turkish gang's hit list? Just wondering." John smirked, amused by how he was able to baffle a man who could deduce just about anything except feelings.

"We have arrived. This conversation has ended. Pay the cabby. I will be inside." He then turned back and added swiftly, "just so you are fully aware… I have no wounds for plasters to be put upon." He disembarked with a clipped tone, not wanting to thoroughly examine Watson's question. There were just too many insignificant sentiments rattling around in his heart and it bothered him substantially. All he wanted to do was save Molly and get on with his life. Nothing added and nothing taken away. Change was something he did not desire in his life right now. Everything was as it should be. Although it would be better if John moved back in, the detective mused.

As Sherlock ascended the concrete steps that led to the immense building, he studied it meticulously. It was a tall futuristic structure of approximately thirty-five floors which were embalmed with glass panes from head to toe. Its name―Cariad&Webber―was encased in blood red bold letters along the top of the building for all the city to see. The skyscraper stood erect like a predator, engulfing the other edifices surrounding it. It was like it was proving a specific point; that it surmounted them all. Stepping inside was just the equivalent to the construction's exterior mirrored encasing; spotless and symmetrical. Large picture frames were hung on the left wall, depicting the generations of the firm's head management over the years. Every portrait was that of dismissive and insipid men. Sherlock felt like he just stepped inside a physician's surgical procedure room. He did not find the area alluring and Watson had a similar qualm. From the polished marble tiles to the smell of lemon-scented disinfectant, everything was deemed too… perfect and unblemished. However, Mr. Holmes knew that it was imperative not to judge a book by its cover. Or in this circumstance, a pharmaceutical company.

Before being allowed to even penetrate into the lobby, an adamant security team with metal detectors and scanners awaited any visitors or employees at the very periphery of the main entrance. "Bit much, isn't it?" Watson addressed his friend.

"Not really." Both of the gentlemen turned around to an unfamiliar voice. It was a tall blond woman, wearing black high-heeled Prada's and holding a white Gucci bag. Sunglasses covered her icy blue eyes and she looked like she stepped out of a magazine. She wore a woman's fitted suit and her hair donned a tidy ponytail. Her appearance was charming, but she had an air of superiority that made Sherlock comprehend how he was able to get under his comrade's skin and even a stranger's. "It is imperative that my medical breakthroughs stay secure from the prying digits of our competitors." She then quickly added, wanting to keep an amiable superficial image. "And certainly from my fellow co-workers as well." She cut in front of them, placing her valuables, shoes and metal items into a grey plastic tray. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a job to accomplish." Passing through she quickly flashed her employee card amassed her belongings and trotted away without a second glance.

"Well, she was a ray of sunshine." Watson chortled sarcastically. "Reminds me of someone." John smirked and Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"May I see your ID or do you have an appointment?" One of the male guards asked with a raspy monotone voice. He stood in his blue uniform, waiting impatiently for a response.

"Neither, but we wish to speak with Mr. Webber. Official business, Scotland's Yard. I am a detective and this is my partner." Sherlock flashed a police badge. The one he easily pick pocketed from Lestrade the last time he worked a case with him. Sherlock knew it was necessary; it came in handy handfuls of times.

The guard nodded with widened eyes. He picked up a phone, informing Walter Webber's secretary of their arrival. Hanging up, he told the duo, "he is awaiting your arrival. His desk is on the last level. You may pass." They got to skip the metal detector; the privileges of having a police badge.

Watson shook his head in disapproval but still donned a grin. "You really need to stop stealing Greg's badge." They entered the elevator, pressing the button for floor thirty-five.

"Liar. I know you find it tremendously beneficial. You shake your head since you enjoy to reprimand me…for some reason." The detective stated with mirth.

"There are many reasons Sherlock. Your annoying nature is one of them."

The elevator made a loud ding and the doors slid open, revealing a small area fitted with a secretarial desk that had behind it a double-door glass entrance with the name 'Walter Webber' inscribed upon it with gold plated letters.

"Are you the ones from the Oxford police?" Mr. Webber's secretary swivelled her chair towards the pair. She was of African descent, medium weight and petite. Large round earrings and bracelets jingled as she moved and Sherlock found her complexion quite unsatisfactory for it was caked with make-up. Like she wanted to look ten years younger but couldn't pull it off. She smiled and Sherlock almost had the urge to clean the red lipstick from upon her front teeth.

"Obviously. May we enter?" Sherlock motioned to the CEO's bureau.

"Of course, go right in. I have already notified Mr. Webber of your arrival." The secretary blushed slightly at the mention of her boss' name. Sherlock scoffed. Typical, just typical. Secret office affair… how insipid, Sherlock grumbled internally. It was always the secretary and the big married CEO. It was like he solved a murder that was undertaken by the butler.

Without a second more, the lady opened the door, showing them inside. Just as they both passed the door's threshold, she closed it, leaving them to continue her desk-work.

At their moment of entry, a chair swivelled around, revealing the person of interest. "What seems to be the problem? I do have a business to run, you know." Walter Webber sneered, crossing his arms with a look of displeasure etched across his face. Both partners sat down on leather chairs which were settled in front of the man's desk.

Sherlock stared profoundly into the man's eyes with an unfaltering countenance. He simply said, "it seems you possess something that is not yours. And I intend to get it back... With any means necessary."


	3. Chapter 3: The Plan

**~TARGETED~**

 **~Chapter 3: The Plan~**

"Oh? And what, kind sir, do you think I have stolen?" Mr. Webber raised an eyebrow, lighting his cigar with his small pudgy fingers. "I am quite offended of how you are doing this enquiry. But then, you are not the police. I ringed Scotland Yard and it seems they did not send any of their men to my corporation." He puffed on his cigar, making rather a large quantity of smoke. He leaned back into his chair with a glare of satisfaction.

Walter Webber was a man whom many called moderately overweight. It was like he never grew out of his baby fat because his growth spurt decided not to arrive. If not for the few too many pounds and the ebbing hairline, he could have been quite a handsome middle-aged man. However, it was not so. Sherlock regarded the man's facade as a sly fox, but he could also catch that through the transparency of it all, Mr. Webber was a man of insecurity. He had a gift for hiding it, but nothing could get by Detective Holmes.

"It is a simple misunderstanding. We aid the police on myriad cases. However, let us just simply acquiesce that we have come because of a friend in dire need of our assistance." Sherlock lightly inched his torso forward, exuding a menacing air.

John continued before a single utterance could exit the businessman's lips. "We are led to believe that you have made a deal with a certain young drug dealer, that of which you have not maintained. All we need is the money back, which shan't be much for you and we will be on our way. Unless…we ring Detective Lestrade. He would love to hear about you." John caught his friend's nod of approval and remained stoic, awaiting Walter's reaction.

Mr. Webber was trying to remain calm and relaxed, but he could not impede himself from sweating. On the other hand, he was able to stay adamant to his claim. "What a load of malarkey! I have done nothing of the sort! I run a strictly legal company here, whatever you are implying-"

A strong fist slammed the desk and Sherlock swiftly sprang up from his seating accommodation mercurially. John was taken aback; it was rare for Sherlock to be violent. Unpredictable and irascible: yes. But violent; only on matters which made him perplexed. Anyhow, his erratic outbursts were usually towards materialistic things. For example, a smiley face painted on a particular wall. "Do not test my temper Mr. Webber. Time is something I do not have." Sherlock spoke with pure inclemency, his face adjacent to the fearful man.

To Holmes' satisfaction, Walter surrendered his foolish contrives and laid his cards down. "Alright, just don't hurt me…" He mumbled as Sherlock sat back down. "The fool came to my office not too long ago and started blackmailing me. The idiot thought we were selling illicit drugs, which is pure nonsense! I have no idea where he heard that rumour from…but he was so sure of himself that I played along. Then, when he started talking about money, I just couldn't give up such a perfect chance to earn some hard cash. The board of administrators was watching the company's accounts carefully because of some mysterious transactions. Just because I'm CEO, doesn't mean there aren't other shareholders who have power." He explained with fervour, wanting his unintended guests to believe him.

"Where is the money now?" John simply asked, folding his arms with an air of disapproval.

"Gone, spent it all a few days ago to pay off my debts. My wife thinks I'm made of money." Mr. Webber rubbed his forehead as he felt a migraine commencing.

Sherlock wanted to flip the desk. The drugs were not real; they were made up. How would Stewart be able to keep his end of the deal when the drugs were imaginary? He tightened his jaw and fists, peering at his watch. Six days, fifteen hours left…He had hit a dead end and now he had to figure out another way to save Molly from such an unfortunate fate. He did not have many options. No police meant no Scotland Yard. He could contact his brother, but the mafia was known to have rats everywhere around the city. There was a chance of the Turkish finding out and he was not going to take that chance. They would put a hit on Molly and then she would be dead the very day or the next―if she was fortunate. He took a big breath and exited the office, his voice trailing behind. "Do come along Watson, Mr. Webber is of no importance anymore. We have bigger fish to fry."

As John whistled a taxi, Sherlock took out his cellular device and texted Molly.

* * *

 _Meanwhile, at St. Barts Hospital_

Molly wanted to accomplish her autopsies but she was emotionally and physically incapacitated; her mind was scared and worried whilst her hands were outstandingly tremulous. She knew it would be an error to perform an autopsy with a scalpel in her condition. Because of this, she decided to do paperwork instead, albeit it was hard for her to acutely concentrate since she kept sneaking a glance at her mobile every half a minute. At the end of twenty minutes, she decided to give up, dropping the pen and planting her head upon the flat service of her desk. She sighed heavily. She wanted to go home but she did not want to see her brother just yet. She was still mad at him and she had good reason to be. Also, she could not go to the police―which meant―no witness protection. Molly felt vulnerable and she did not enjoy one morsel of that feeling.

The pathologist arose, heading to the bathroom to dab cool water on her face. She looked in the mirror and saw a complexion from the past. Her face was wan and her eyes were red. She found herself looking once again so mousy and weak. Molly was turning into the stuttering mushy mess she once was. The woman she was before Sherlock's Fall. Back then, she wore her heart on her sleeve and was exploited for it. For a long time, she was head over heels for Sherlock Holmes, the man who never really saw her. However, after saving him, things changed. They were now friends and she cherished it whole-heartedly. Old feelings would occasionally arise, but Molly pushed them aside, not wanting to change anything that was not broken. She would never be able to pursue Sherlock Holmes in a romantic way, so she routed for second-best; being his friend. She shook her head as if she was burying her older self once again. No more nervous, babbling, mousy Molly Hooper. After seemingly ending her romantic feeling towards the stoic detective (she could never undertake the task fully), she was finally able to be the woman who could make a difference in the world and that was strong-willed, sanguine, clever Molly Hooper.

She was getting good at it; pushing her emotions aside when she could not bear them any longer. It was actually with Sherlock's aid that she was able to do it. He showed her the method of Loci, which he called his mind palace every time he would stay at her place. During the two years he was off the radar, he would hide away in her apartment sporadically. Sometimes he would stay for a week or only a day. There were a few times when she had not seen him for months, but he constantly came back. She concluded it was because he had no one else. He would enter her residence in all sorts of ways. Through the windows or doors. Also, she could never fathom how he would be dressed as. One thing she knew; he was never garbed as himself. Molly had seen her friend as a postman, a bellboy, a punk, a policeman. She had seen him with short, long, puffy, curly hair and with beards, moustaches, and monocles. He was a mystery in himself. However, there were a few times where he had scared her half to death when he entered battered, bruised, bloody or all three. He would lie on her couch and she would patch him up the best she could with what she had. After the first time, she started to stock up on various medicines, bandages, and first aid materials. It always came in handy.

After his stride back into the real world, she noticed he had become more distanced from her, but she still knew he regarded her as a friend. They would talk occasionally in the morgue and he would still ask for body parts, but much less than before. She smiled when she remembered that he had ceased his flirtatious methods of getting what he wanted and she appreciated it very much. They also chatted on the phone but ever so rarely since Sherlock was a man of texting.

Breath hitching, Molly ran back to her desk, looking at her phone once more after hearing a message notification. It was Sherlock. It depicted. 'COME TO BAKER ST. SITUATION HARDER TO ASSESS. DO NOT DWINDLE. –SH'

Hastily, she stripped from her lab coat and sported a thin jacket for spring had only just begun. Stroking her arms slowly to gain some more warmth, she strode along the path as panic slowly crept up behind her.

Once arrived in front of the infamous 221B door, she did not bother knocking and let herself in. She crept up the stairs and entered the apartment just as she had done not so long ago. However, this time, the atmosphere was sullen. Sherlock stared out the window with his hands behind his back in an almost minute slouch. John sat in his chair glancing at the back of Sherlock's head every few seconds and looking everywhere else for the rest of the time.

"So what happened?" She immediately asked after stepping through the complex's threshold, slightly out of breath from the rushing. Although she was usually an optimistic person, today, she felt quite pessimistic as the worst case scenarios encompassed her thoughts. The pathologist could only hear the faint murmuring of Sherlock's voice. John, on the other hand, remained silent. He could not find the words to describe their escalating dilemma and he felt that it was not in his place to say so anyway.

" I got here as soon as I could." She added as she tried to stimulate the chance that someone beside her would utter something comprehensible. Molly shifted her feet, the hanging silence making her feel uncomfortable.

Luckily, John noticed Molly's restless demeanour and urged her to take a seat with a rapid gesture and a smile. She did as she was told but found his smile irksome. The pathologist was certain she could detect a form of pity imprinted onto Watson's facial expression; targeted primarily towards her.

Abruptly, Sherlock spun around and sighed loudly, immediately slumping into his chair that was directly opposing Molly. She started blinking rapidly from confusion and slight nervousness because Sherlock was staring right at her with such persistent perplexity. She rapidly calmed down when she perceived that he wasn't really looking at her but rather through her. She concluded that he was probably stuck in one of the rooms of his mind palace, searching for a way to solve whatever needed to be solved. It was obvious that their outing had not ended well—even she could deduce that.

After a couple more minutes, Sherlock was finally lucid once again. He sat in an orderly and gentlemanly fashion, clearing his throat to symbolize his readiness to speak. "I have thought up an ingenious method to end this case once and for all." He finally breathed out, seeming quite imperious because of his impressive mind.

"So, what is this plan B about exactly?" John asked, leaning forward.

"John, don't make it seem that I only had the capacity of coming up with one plan. I have found many others, but have narrowed it down to the most logical one. If you must give it a name for that tedious blog, which I often ponder whether people actually read, at least be precise and call it the zeta plan. It is only fitting." Sherlock reprimanded fervently. John was taken slightly aback. Sherlock could be very judgemental towards the fellow doctor, but since they came back from Cariad&Webber, he seemed to have a much shorter fuse than usual. Which was saying a lot.

"Why did I even ask…" Watson angrily grumbled.

"Sorry, but what happened with the first plan? Could you not obtain the drugs?" Molly edged into the badly commenced conversation, leaning forward as John had done beforehand.

"They don't exist. Your brother was told a rumour. The CEO was just fooling with him to pay off his debts." Watson replied, sighing.

Molly clenched the fabric of her trousers, daring to pose another question."And the money? Can't we just pay them back instead of giving them the-"

"Useless, definitely useless." Sherlock interrupted loudly, grunting as though the question was utterly absurd. "Stewart has already confirmed to us that the Turkish Mafia did not care about getting their money back. It is also indisputable that they are resorting to blackmail and brutality because they abhor the idea of being swindled. Their sense of dignity is tremendously paramount for them. Which means when their dignity is revoked, revenge is their best way to retrieve it. If they do not get what they asked for, then they will not stop until they kill…You." He had faltered during his last sentence, unable to say the last few words with as much apathy as he usually spoke with. Illogically, to him, he was incapable of looking directly into Molly's eyes. To relieve the tension building up inside him, he added, "then Stewart, they will also kill Stewart."

"We cannot bribe them or give them what they want, how are we supposed to incapacitate them? And do not say kill them. I've seen enough deaths when I was in the army."

"No, I say we go undercover as wealthy buyers. Then, when they set a date and a time for the pick-up, we notify Lestrade. Thus, many of the cartel leaders get arrested for supplying illegal substances." Sherlock simply stated his plan, donning a pleased physiognomy.

"But…it is highly improbable that every member of the cartel will be there. How will this affect the nature of me being targeted? Did you not explain that they will inflict their revenge to the fullest if needed?" Molly bombarded Sherlock with questions, not particularly wanting to imagine what the cartel might do to her. Her chest tightened and it was not at all linked to anything blithesome. She felt like her lungs were starting to contract at an alarming rate. She had only felt this kind of anxiety and fear twice in her life; when her mother died when she was a child followed by the death of her father a little under a decade ago.

"Yes, I did. However, if we jeopardize their whole operation, they will not deem you worthy of their attention anymore. They will have other more dire problems to handle. Even if they fix the mess we make, you will be already long gone from their minds." Sherlock explained, deducing Molly's frightful countenance with ease. He felt extreme ire toward those breaking down the courage she worked awfully hard to obtain and replacing it with timorousness. Friendship was important to him, (although he did not always show it) so he understood how difficult it would be to restrain his fist from making contact with the mobsters' faces when he went undercover with John. Sherlock grinned as he mused; perhaps he could get the gratifying opportunity to strike Stewart instead on the account that he was the heart of the problem.

"Blimey, I think it could actually work. If we play our roles correctly." Watson confessed, rubbing his stubbly chin.

"John, why do you seem so surprised? Do not underestimate me by saying it could work. The zeta plan shall definitely succeed." The detective surmised, glancing at Molly to see if she was in compliance.

"I trust you both. Whatever you have to do, please do it. It might seem a little audacious of me, but I think I am allowed to be saved by you this time. I did save you from death after all." She smirked, her anxiety dissipating as each second flew by.

Sherlock did not falter to reciprocate the smirk. Molly Hooper was becoming fascinating and Sherlock abhorred the fact that he was oblivious to the reason why.


	4. Chapter 4: The Deal (Part 1)

**~Chapter 4: The Deal**

 ** _Time_** _:_ _Monday-11:21-AM_

 ** _Countdown_** _:_ _6 days, 13 hours, and 9 minutes left_

 ** _Locat_** ** _ion_** _: Molly Hooper's Apartment _

"Wake up Mr Hooper, It's John Watson."

"How do you ordinary humans do it? Do you think this is all he does? Sleep?"

"Let us not generalize...On the other hand, he was asleep when I found him this morning as well…"

"It is simply impossible that this is Molly's brother. They are polar opposites."

"Not all siblings can be essentially the same such as you and Mycroft."

"Do not compare _me_ to my _brother,_ John. We are an entirely different matter."

"Whatever makes you happy, Sherlock."

Edward drowsily woke up after hearing a loud conversation mainly about him; not that he was lucid enough to understand it. He lifted his head and saw Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. He jumped out of the seat he was in, rubbing his tousled clothes. They had given him quite a scare. For one, they were invading his personal space and one can get easily surprised if the first thing one sees in the morning is two men who weren't in one's apartment a moment ago. "Wha...? What are you doin' 'ere? Somethin' happen to Molls?" He asked fervently, straightening his back with a worrisome countenance.

"Of course not, we would not be here wasting our time telling you if that was the reason," Sherlock answered with haste, wanting to reach the topic of discussion he desired. "Now that you are awake for once, care to illuminate which gang you undoubtedly distempered and where they reside at the moment? Being now, straight away, at once, toute-suite." The detective muttered, getting awfully close to the subject he was pressuring.

Edward subconsciously took a few steps back, his legs banging on the edge of the seat he had laid upon previously. "They own a restaurant as a front. Good place to do business under the radar, ain't it?"

"Yes, yes. Dare to give me a name?" Sherlock iterated, folding his arms.

"The Grey Wolf."

The tallest man in the room scoffed, slightly amused by Edward's short answer. "Of course, what an insipid name. The grey wolf; Turkey's national animal. Too straightforward. They might as well call it 'we sell drugs here'!"

"I don't see how anyone would think that, but-" John could hardly get a word in before his partner left the premises as though he had never come. The doctor muttered a curse under his breath and after giving an apologetic look to the younger man, he left. Edward was once again left behind; something that was happening to him increasingly. He was still unsure of what to think of it as he stood there for what felt to him like an eternity.

.,.,.,.,.,..,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

 ** _Time_** _:_ _Monday-1:15-PM_

 ** _Countdown_** _:_ _6 days, 11 hours, and 15 minutes left_

 ** _Locat_** ** _ion_** _: Restaurant: The Grey Wolf_

"Keep the change." Watson declared speedily to the taxi driver just as Sherlock stepped into the Turkish restaurant. The doctor soon caught up with his friend (who donned a fake moustache and round metal spectacles) who was standing in front of the reception desk.

"So, a party of two?" A young red-headed waitress, whose name tag indicated Petra, assumed after seeing John come up behind Sherlock.

"Yes." The detective simply answered, walking past the girl as he chose his own table next to the large glass windows plastered in the front of the establishment.

The waitress scurried behind the two men, prepping them with the menus and serving them with water. "I'll come back to take your order soon."

Both men looked at each other with understanding and started analyzing their surroundings. The building was large, yet it seemed that only a small fraction of it was utilized as the restaurant itself. To John, The Grey Wolf was fairly similar to the classy restaurant that he had dined at with Mary when he had seen Sherlock for the first time after his alleged death.

After a few minutes, Petra came back to their table with a small notepad in hand. "What can I get for you?"

"I think you have brought us the wrong menu. I would prefer the menu with the exquisite assortment of drugs on it." Sherlock declared in a serious tone, handing the menu back to the server.

The young woman only smiled, but Sherlock could see the anger he lit in her eyes. "Let me talk to the manager. I'm sure he can sort something out for you." She seethed, snatching the menus and looking around to see if any zealous ears had heard the previous comment.

"Well, that's one way to sniff out the Alpha Wolf. By invading his territory." John crossed his arms, readying himself to take out the gun he had holstered inside his coat.

"Directness has its virtues. It saves time, for one." Sherlock countered, strengthening the reason for his brazen action. "And I reiterate, time is not on our side."

"Point Taken."

The atmosphere became charged when two large thugs, dressed in all black, entered the dining area from the doors that lead to the kitchen and where the criminally inclined did their deals. Sherlock, who was used to risky situations, simply rolled his eyes. He was clearly not intimidated by the two men; he had gone against worse.

"Typical," Sherlock whispered to John as both men approached, "the waiter is frazzled when I talk about their inclinations toward narcotics and seemingly wants me to shut up, yet unleashes two men who do not carry gentle dispositions to come and- not at all discreetly-escort us to some back room." He let out a low snicker to accompany his jocularity toward the matter at hand. "As I had declared before, they stand out as much as a sign indicating 'We sell drugs here!'"

"Shut up, Sherlock. I hardly think it is the time to diss their inconspicuousness." John whispered back, taming Sherlock's erratic behaviour.

"Very well," Sherlock answered as the man on the left grabbed his arm, shoving the detective toward the back door with the second thug doing the same to John.

.,.,.,.,.,..,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

"Who are you?" A seat was pulled out in front of the two detainees, the only obstacle in between was a desk with accentuated knife marks on its wooden surface. A man sat down, presumably the higher power as the alpha symbol was inked into the back of his neck.

Sherlock, who was forced to sit by one of the thugs along with John, quickly observed a bottle of finished Buzbağ in a black bin beside the desk. The indicators where all there: this was the man who Edward had done hazardous business with. This was the mobster who threatened Edward…This was the monster who wanted to kill Molly Hooper because of a damaged wallet and hurt pride.

"Not important. I am here for some - how do you Turks call it? - 'recreational opium'. I hear you smuggle it in its purest and most optimal condition from your own country. So, are you open for business? I doubt the kitchen is closed Mr…?" Sherlock trailed the sentence off, waiting for the man to finish it.

"Omer…You look familiar…" The leader raised his eyebrow with menacing uncertainty, standing up and putting all his weight on the front of the desk to get a closer look at his two detainees. He was so immersed in figuring out the reason behind both gentlemen's (or at least Sherlock's) recognizable features that he fully disregarded Sherlock's latest suave assumption.

"I have been told many times that I resemble Sherlock Holmes! Fancy that!" Sherlock roared an amateurish laugh, flailing his arms in the air, his acting skills on full throttle. "It can be awfully annoying when needing to finish business transactions." John shot a quick glance at Sherlock, not even bothering to understand what in the world he was trying to pull. After working with him for a long time he finally realised to just play along - doing the opposite usually had more dire consequences.

"For sure, in our…off the books field of work, him being compared to a famous detective who works with Scotland Yard is bloody maddening!" John spoke up, waving his hands around in the same manner as Sherlock had done.

An unnerving silence came over the room as Omer continued to stare at his captives as if he was deciding whether he should kill them or believe them. His stare lingered and lingered and lingered until he let out a low chuckle.

"He much taller. Less…skinny and…pale." Omar paused between descriptions, a taunting smile still on his face. "Nothing like you."

Satisfied with his conclusion, he went back to his seat. "Let me ask again, who are you?"

"I don't like using names. Think of me as a businessman who is ready to make a deal, if you are interested."

"I am listening" The mobster leaned back in his chair as a small grin sat on his face.

Whatever Sherlock said next would determine the fate of Molly Hooper.


End file.
